He only looked at Mrs. Jones in silence by way of answer, a grave meaning in his sad face. It spoke volumes: and Mrs. Jones, albeit not one to give way to emotion, or any other kind of weakness, felt as if a jug of cold water were being poured down her back. Straightforward, always, she put the question to him with naked plainness.
"Do you suspect her?"
"I have suspected her," came the low tones of Mr. Ollivera in answer. "Believe me, Mrs. Jones, whatever may be the final result of this, I grieve for it bitterly."
"I say, why can't you speak up, and say you did not do it?" stamped Roland in his championship. "Don't be frightened out of your senses by Butterby. He never pitches upon the right person; Mrs. J. remembers that."
"As this here talking won't do any good--and I'm sure if it would I'd let it go on a bit--suppose we make a move," interposed Butterby. "If you'd like to put up a few things to take with you, Miss Rye, do so. You'll have to go to Helstonleigh."
"Oh law!" cried Roland. "I say, Butterby, it's a mistake, I know. Let her go. Come! you shall have all my dinner."
"Don't stand there like a statue, as if you were moonstruck," said Mrs. Jones, seizing her sister to administer a slight shaking. "Tell them you are innocent, girl, if you can; and let Butterby go about his business."
And in response, Alletha neither spoke nor moved.
But at this moment another actor came upon the scene. A knock at the front door was politely answered at once by the policeman, glad, no doubt, to have something to do, and Mr. Brown entered, arriving at home for his midday meal. Roland dashed into the passage.
"I say, Brown, here is a stunning shame. Old Butterby's come to take up Alletha Rye."